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grandma poem

there is a city, builded by no hand
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
daughter, thou art come to die
never in all my life
if the red slayer think he slays
skies they were ashen and sober
i am old and blind
stir
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
melancholy, blue it was
and still they walked on
glass-blower of time
in his guarded tent


 



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